


Hell In A Palette Meme

by HandsomeManExpress (DangerousCommieSubversive)



Series: The Wrestlememe-ia Experience [3]
Category: Chikara (Professional Wrestling), World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Meme, Multi, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Other, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 20:33:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5219849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DangerousCommieSubversive/pseuds/HandsomeManExpress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wrestlefic prompt fills from the <a href="http://handsomemanexpress.tumblr.com/post/107513520027/dangerouscommiesubversive">Fanfic Writer's Palette Challenge</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sami Zayn and Adrian Neville

**Author's Note:**

> All promotions I write for are included--browse the chapter listing to find characters you like. ^_^

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> majorheelturn asked: well i am sure the ship will be a HUGE SHOCK but sami/adrian (my addiction always done so beautifully by your wonderful self!), college road trip? :D

“Can we  _please_  listen to something besides your indie records, Sami? If I here one more clever analogy I swear I’m going to go mad.”

Sami grins, not looking away from the road. “I thought we agreed that the driver chose the music. And since  _you_  don’t know how to drive here, that means it’s always  _me._ ”

Adrian groans, banging his head against his head rest. “If I’d known we were going to be listening to the Mountain Goats for a week straight I’d never have agreed to drive to Wrestlemania with you, mate. Florida to California’s an awful drive with this soundtrack.”

“I could put on some ska.”

“The only ska I’ll listen to is Madness, you know that.”

“You’re so British that I’m surprised you didn’t bleed tea when I hit you in the face that one time.”

Adrian snorts. “Nah, that’d be Dr. Regal.”

“Who I would  _never_  hit in the face, because I think he’d probably kill me. How’d you do on the final, by the way? Did you manage to make it through the whole thing, or did you get so distracted by Tyler sitting in front of you that you got everything wrong?”

“Did ok.” Adrian slings his feet up onto the dashboard. “Can’t believe I won’t be top of the dean’s list this semester. Can’t believe you  _will_  be. Can we  _please_ listen to something else?”

Sami starts laughing. “Well, I brought along some Victorian chamber music just for you.”

“I’m never sleeping with you again.”

“You know you can’t stay away.”

“Neither can the dean, apparently.”

“Hey, shut up, you slept with him too.”


	2. Triple H and Seth Rollins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Tripple H/Seth Rollins - Mob - War

Orton’s out.

He’s been on the  _way_  out for some time, everyone knows that. He’s too headstrong to make a good lieutenant, too unpredictable to even be a good enforcer—and after all, this is war. Everything is unstable, everything’s  _been_ unstable since Whiskers O’Bryan went into hiding and that fucker Punk disappeared. Cena’s people are in combat mode. The Divas are keeping their own council and looking murder at anyone who comes into their territory. The Beast and his mouthpiece are always a menace just out of sight. The Reverend Wyatt and his thugs are making headway in the outer neighborhoods. Hunter’s private club, the Florida boys, they’re out of the picture most of the time, but the threat of them looms large. And the vigilantes, the ones who scared  _everyone_ , the ones who called themselves the Hounds of Justice, they’ve fallen apart. Betrayed.

And the boss has a new lieutenant, and it’s their betrayer. Seth Rollins.

Nobody’s quite sure what to make of Rollins. He’s too  _cheery._  Always there at Hunter’s shoulder with a smile on his face and a knife in his sleeve and his two eerie little enforcers following him like stray dogs waiting for table scraps. His confidence is so ridiculous that it’s almost threatening. And why would the boss put someone he  _knows_  is untrustworthy in a position of such power?

There are some nasty rumors. Everyone  _knows_  the boss’ wife is the power behind the throne, hiding knives of her own behind her sweet-voice support. Word among the foot soldiers says  _she’s_  why Rollins got to where he is, that Rollins did her some  _favors._  That he keeps her company on lonely nights when the boss is away.

Of course, the rumors stop as soon as Rollins catches wind of them and gives Slater—not the one who started them, just the guy who happened to be  _closest_ to him—a little bit of a Glasgow smile, right out in the middle of the street, laughing all the time.

“It’s wartime, boys,” Rollins had said, grinning. “No time for dissent in the ranks, right? Work to do!” And he’d wiped off his knife on Slater’s jacket and put it away like nothing had happened.

So now nobody’s saying  _shit_  about the boss’ wife, and  _she_  just looks smug all the time and isn’t talking. (And she’s got her own lieutenant, she’s got Nikki the Jock, who’ll tear your throat out if you even  _look_  at Ms. McMahon wrong, and nobody’s going to mess with her.)

The only one who knows the trick  _behind_  the trick, the more  _sordid_  reason why Rollins is top dog, is Kane.  _He’s_  a company man all the way, doesn’t think it’s his damn  _business_  what the boss and his golden boy do behind closed doors, doesn’t hear a  _bit_  of what they do in their private meetings.

And nobody’s going to ask the Demon anything anyway.

After all, there’s no time for dissent in the ranks. This is war.


	3. Brad Maddox, Roman Reigns, Seth Rollins, and Dean Ambrose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Brad/The Shield - Circus - roadtrip
> 
> Couple of points. First–this sort of ended up being a period piece. Second–the Shield guys don’t really show up until the end? But I think you’ll like how they do appear. Third–I like to joke about other promotions, so sue me.

Grease is always a tough gig in new towns. There’s always the standard list of people to bribe, but some places have their own weird power structures, and you can’t always get the hang of them quick enough to stay out of trouble. Brad’s been supplied with enough money to  _get_  himself out of most trouble, true, but sometimes money’s just not enough. Like when you’re standing in front of a sharp-eyed lady mayor who doesn’t look like she’s too impressed with what you’re trying to sell, and who’s saying, “We don’t need a carnival in our town, son.” _  
_

“But it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, ma'am!” Brad beams at her, adjusting his tie. “Our route doesn’t often take us out this way!” (For good reason, too; damn the scarlet flu outbreak in the Carolinas for sending them out on a wildcat path.)

 "I don’t want folks coming through and ripping my tax-paying citizens off.“ She cracks her knuckles quietly. It’s not a reassuring sound. "They get enough of that from me.”

“Oh no, Mrs. Mayor, I assure you, everything’s very legal and aboveboard. And of course I’d be happy to offer you an advance share of the show’s profits for allowing us into your lovely city.”

The mayor looks him up and down, and she doesn’t seem at all impressed. “Sweet little thing, aintcha? They send you out front so as to make us think the whole show’s gonna be that pretty? Seems like false advertising.” More cracking of knuckles. “Tell me a bit about the show, then, if I can’t get you outta my hair. Y'all do all manner of  _educational_  performances, I imagine. Lectures. Exhibitions.  _Medicine._  Probably you got some pretty girls ready to turn heads, maybe a few animals. Midway with some games.”

Brad tugs at his collar. “Yes, ma'am. We also have a variety of athletic demonstrations.”

“You got any wrestlers? ‘Cause my nephew,  _he’s_  a wrestler. Amateur, like.” She looks back over her shoulder towards the poker game at the far end of the bar. “Ethan, boy, come on over here!”

A sharply dressed mountain steps away from the poker game and says, genially, “Yes, Aunt Dixie?”

She smiles up at him. “Ethan, why don’t you show the man from the carnival how you’re a wrestler.”

He nods. “Do we want the carnival here?”

“No, dear, we don’t.”

“All right, then.” Nephew Ethan cracks  _his_  knuckles. The sound is thunderous. “Why don’t we step outside, and I’ll give you a demonstration.”

Brad swallows hard and tries to remember the “bail me out” code phrase. “Well. Uh. I’m not  _really_  the person to see any  _auditions._  But if you'd  _like,_  I brought some talent along from the show!”

And suddenly a shadow falls over the mayor and her nephew, there are presences at his back, and a hand lands heavily on his shoulder. “Hey, Brad,” Seth says next to his ear.

“We got an audition?” Dean’s grinning.

Roman rolls his neck. “We haven’t had an audition for a  _while._ ”

Brad can feel himself relaxing. “Mayor Carter, these gentleman are Dean, Seth, and Roman, some of the carnival’s finest talent. Maybe your nephew would like to wrestle with  _them!_ ”


	4. Brad Maddox, Roman Reigns, Dean Ambrose, and Seth Rollins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Brad/The Shield - Mob roadtrip

Brad’s hands are tight on the steering wheel, and his eyes stay on the road. He keeps repeating to himself,  _They’re not going to kill me. They’re not going to kill me. I’m just the messenger. They’re_   _ **professionals.**_

Two of the Hounds of Justice are sitting in the back seat of his car (not  _his_  car, the boss lent it to him for this). The big Samoan– _Roman,_  his name is Roman Reigns, they call him the Emperor–is watching him in the rear view mirror, the outline of his holstered gun faintly visible under his jacket. Next to him, Dean Ambrose is cleaning his fingernails with a switchblade, his hat pushed back so far it’s practically falling off his head.

And the third one,  _Seth Rollins_  is sitting next to Brad, in the passenger’s seat in front, looking like a perfectly reasonable businessman except for the smooth black gloves on his hands.  _He’s_  saying, “So why’d the boss send  _you,_  Maddox? Normally he tries to intimidate us. Normally he sends Orton or somebody like that.  _You_  look like a secretary.”

Brad bites down on a snappy reply and says only, “I  _am_  his secretary.”

Roman whistles. Dean closes his switchblade with a snap and says, “But can you  _type,_  that’s the question, or are you just a pretty face.”

“I’m. Uh. I’m not a bad typist.”

“Give the kid a break.” Roman is grinning. “He can’t even afford a suit that fits right.”

“Naw, I bet it fits  _exactly_  how it’s meant to.” Dean leers at Brad in the mirror. “Maybe Ms. McMahon picked it out for him. She’s gotta get bored sometimes.”

Brad’s knuckles go white on the wheel. Seth twists around in his seat and makes a rude gesture. “Knock it off, you two, you’re gonna make the poor kid crash the car. None of our business if the boss’s wife likes a little eye candy.”

It’s a long drive from the city to the boss’s private place in Connecticut, anyway, and eventually they get off his case. Dean and Roman even drift off to sleep, finally, pulling their hats down over their eyes and leaning on each other back to back so that they can both face a window.

Seth doesn’t sleep, though. Once the  _other_  two are out he murmurs, “So what’s the game?”

Brad shifts nervously. “I don’t know. It’s Mr. Helmsley’s game.”

“You’re telling me a secretary doesn’t hear  _anything?_ ” Seth leans in, and Brad quietly curses the bench seat for letting the hitman get so close. “What’s he offering?”

“That’s…that’s up to him to tell you.” Brad is blushing, which is definitely the worst thing ever.

“Well, you keep me posted if you  _do_  hear anything.” Seth pats him on the knee with one gloved hand. “And let your boss know that I might be interested in doing some business privately.”


	5. Simon Gotch and Aiden English

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> powerbombshell asked: Oh man. Since I am transparent and you are amazing, could you try Vaudevillains + Roaring 20s + Murder Mystery

_Who killed the Painted Man?_

Aiden kneels down by the body, frowning. When he checks for a pulse his hand comes up unexpectedly bloody, and he shies away. “It’s not gaff. He’s actually dead.”

Simon’s eyes go wide, and he drops into a crouch at Aiden’s side, smoothing his mustache nervously. “Who would have killed him?”

“I don’t know.” Aiden frowns. “He didn’t have many friends, but I don’t think he had many enemies.”

There’s a rustle, and they look up in surprise as Alexa leans through the curtain, her little crown tipping off her head and her patchy sequined dress falling off one shoulder. “Corey, where the hell are you? We’ve got a tour coming through, they’re only two exhibits off.” Then she sees the blood on Aiden’s hand and squeaks. “Wait, that ain't  _his,_  is it?”

The two men look up at her, and their expressions say everything.

She bites her lip, glancing back over her shoulder. “We’re gonna need someone in his spot if we don’t want the locals breathing down our necks. You got something you can yell about, Professor? I can stretch out my shtick a few minutes if you hurry.”

Aiden cleans his hand on another grubby curtain nearby and stands up. “Shakespeare. I have a monologue, one of the fire-and-brimstone ones from the tragedies, that always holds a crowd.”

“Ok, good.” She takes another glance. “Criminy, the rubes are almost here, I gotta go.” And she ducks back out to the front, straightening her dress as the curtain swishes shut.

Simon surveys the Painted Man’s body grimly. “He’ll need burial rites. And someone will need to be notified.”

“Hunter.” Aiden is brushing dust off his clothes in a hurry, expanding his battered top hat. “Tell the boss, he’s got the money. We’ll need grease if we’re going to take care of this in privacy.”

“I’ll take care of it. My next show isn’t for half an hour.” Simon gathers the body up in his arms with the ease of a child carrying a doll. “Our problems are our problems.”

A momentary, wordless kiss, and then Aiden hurries away, the tails of his coat flapping behind him. Simon leaves silently out the back of the museum, the body in his arms, murmuring prayers softly as he goes to tell the boss that there’s been a murder in the carnival.


End file.
